


A Language I Don't Speak

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-ish, M/M, Tattoos, Zarry shenanigans in Brazil, slight angst, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn's first thought, in any situation, on any given day, is Harry. It's as infuriating as it is habitual.</p><p>(Zayn and Harry figure a few things out in Brazil, a canon fic set during the last few days of the South American leg of WWAT.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Language I Don't Speak

It starts with something small, their Brazilian "adventure," for lack of a better word.  
  
It always does. When it comes down to it, any argument, or occasion, or celebration, starts with something small, minuscule, innocuous. The big things don't come from big things, they come from small blips on radars, small ripples in swimming pools, tiny flaps of a butterfly's wings (if you believe the theory and all that).  
  
One Direction didn't happen because Simon Cowell decided so, like some big master plan set in motion on purpose, with a man behind a curtain dictating the future. One Direction happened because five young boys decided in five separate bedrooms, to get up and tie their shoes, to walk out into the world and try something different. One Direction started with fives sets of eyes staring at five different ceilings, envisioning five futures that inevitably became intertwined, so much so, they were one big knot no one could ever undo. Those were small decisions, small happenings that ended up creating something massive.  
  
Zayn thinks about a knot as it happens, as the small thing that sets them off happens, that day in the hotel.  
  
A man walks up to him, Paul, and a few other security guys, as they walk towards the lifts in the lobby. He had been in Rio for an hour, Zayn just making his way up to his room after spending last night with Louis in Paraguay, fucking around doing nothing, before the Rio shows, when the man waves at him, a big grin on his face. He begins speaking Portuguese, his face lit up, bag over his shoulder, completely excited.  
  
Zayn turns to Paul, giving him the look he uses when he doesn't know what to do, how to approach a situation, not knowing if it's dangerous or not. Paul immediately held his hand out, did that weird thing with his arm when he in equal measure can shield the boys entirely, while also letting them still look at and assess a situation.  
  
The man kept speaking, waving his hands around excitedly, shaking his head.  
  
Paul looked at him, seemed to get it, and stepped away with a small smile on his face. Zayn can't grasp what the man wants. He looks back at Paul, pleading to help him understand.  
  
But Paul just smiles at him, a small one, the fatherly smile he knew the boys needed sometimes.  
  
"I think he just wants to know your name," Paul says quietly, touching his back.  
  
Zayn can't help the exhale that escapes his lungs, the breath that rushes out of him as he smiles, turning back towards the man, clearly a tourist, a dad. Maybe he recognizes Zayn's face from his daughter's bedroom posters. He smiles and steps to the man.  
  
Zayn Malik hasn't had to introduce himself in a very long time, and it's almost a relief.  
  
"I'm Zayn," he murmurs with another small smile, holding his hand out.  
  
The man just smiles and shakes it, looks at him for a few more moments, before walking away, grabbing his phone from his pocket to undoubtedly call the young girl in his life.  
  
It's not something he expected, and it's something so small, so minuscule, it shouldn't make him glow as much as it does. But the first thought Zayn has, as the old local man walks further away, as the group steps onto the lift and the guys start chatting away again, is how he can't wait to tell Harry. He actually got to introduce himself to someone, for real, someone who truly didn't know his name, with his hand out and everything.  
  
Zayn's first thought, in any situation, on any given day, is Harry.  
  
It's as infuriating as it is habitual.

  
  
***

  
South America has been, in a word, mental.  
  
To be fair, they knew it would be. Ten shows in two weeks, on a new continent in countries they've never been, to see fans who have been waiting years to see them, well… they didn't exactly expect it to be a simple affair. They knew what they were getting into, is all.  
  
They've been told to go fast, to rush, to sing and sing and sing, to get the show in under two hours each night, for safety reasons. They knew it would be difficult, performing a new set after a whole year of doing their last show, under strict guidelines, no less.  
  
But Zayn knew it would be especially rough for him, bouncing from place to place for a few weeks, so far from home, so far from what he was used to. And he's used to a lot, after being in the band for four years, so that's saying something. They don't have a bus during this leg of the tour, no home base, or bunks of their own. It's just show after show, hotel after hotel, place after place, and it all gives Zayn a headache. He misses his family, he misses his house and his friends, and Perrie, and his weird collection of animals in their tanks in his upstairs guest room.  
  
That's something they never told him, or any of the boys, when they started out: that every emotion, every thought, every new place they go, it all comes with an underlying longing for some place else.  
  
Zayn sighs, as he throws his bags on the bed. He hears Paul and all the team out in the hall, walking in and out of the open doors to various rooms. They rent entire floors out now, wherever they go, each boy with their own, each member of their team on either sides of them, or above them, cocooning them. It's kind of nice, actually, being surrounded by the same people wherever they go. He distinctly hears Liam's laughter, somewhere far off, which brings a smile to his face. He hasn't seen any of the boys besides Louis since the day before.  
  
Harry barges in, because of course he does, walks in barefoot right as Zayn grabs for his laptop.  
  
"It's a gorgeous day," Harry says, walking to open the balcony doors, to let the fresh air in and look out over Rio. "It's our morning off and everything. The world is our oyster and all that."  
  
"Yeah," Zayn yawns, settling on the bed against the headboard.  
  
"Did you have fun with Lou?" Harry turns to him, eying him with his classic Harry stare, the intense one.  
  
"Yeah, s'good. Just chilled out."  
  
"Oh," Harry nods, still staring at him.  
  
Zayn and Harry have gotten good at this, saying nothing and yet saying a lot all at once. Zayn looks up and stares right back at him. If Harry wants to do this now, if he wants to get mad at Zayn for going off with Louis for the night, to smoke and have a few drinks alone, then he'll do it. But he won't make it easy.  
  
Harry seems to decide against it, seems to let it go, as he quickly walks to the bed and crawls up into Zayn's lap. He shoves his laptop away, almost lets it fall to the floor, before moving it slower, more gentle, like Zayn always reminds him to.  
  
He buries his face in Zayn's neck, as Zayn brings his arms around him to rub his back. He's wearing that stupid HOT N HARD tshirt he's had forever, the one Zayn swears is one wash away from being see through. He runs his fingers under it, along Harry's lower back just how he likes.  
  
"Missed you," Harry mumbles into his skin.  
  
"Missed you," Zayn exhales, into Harry's hair, blowing it with his breath.  
  
Zayn inhales, sucks Harry's scent into his lungs like oxygen. He hasn't had it in so long, it seems.  
  
Their break had been a long one, the longest they'd ever had as a group. Zayn spent it with his family, with his friends, reconnecting with the people in his life who barely knew him anymore, and Harry spent it everywhere else, far away, in LA for weeks on end. Even during rehearsals, for the few weeks they all got back together to get ready for tour, it was like they tiptoed around each other. They didn't know how to be together, but they didn't know how to be apart either.  
  
And then all of a sudden they were in Argentina, having drinks as a massive group in the hotel bar after an especially loud show, and Harry pulled him away and kissed him again, after months of nothing. He held Zayn's face in his palms, in his sweet hands, as Zayn pawed at the front of Harry's jeans because he fucking missed it. He missed Harry with every cell in his body, missed the taste of red wine when mixed with Harry's mouth. He practically scratched at Harry, almost ripped his belt off without undoing it, before Paul rounded the corner and swiftly grabbed him by the back of the collar and shoved him back towards the party.  
  
If Zayn and Harry had a pound for every time one of their security guys caught them in a heated moment, in public, mere steps from camera phones and wandering eyes, they'd hardly need to put out a third perfume in time for Christmas.  
  
They laughed in the bar after the kiss, fingers brushing lightly, as they realized it would all be fine, eventually. Break or not, they were still them, two little knobs who could never keep their hands to themselves, for as long as anyone could remember.  
  
But that was days ago, the last time they touched, so having Harry in his lap now just makes Zayn want to keep him there, forever if he can.  
  
Harry leans back and grabs at the tank top Zayn threw on that morning, the one Zayn swears is a light shade of green, and Louis swears is a light shade of blue. He holds Zayn by the fabric, kisses him, swipes his tongue along Zayn's lip, into his mouth, and then back out again, teasing, tasting, biting.  
  
Zayn shifts his leg slightly to get a better angle, moves his hips up, grabs at the skin of Harry's hips. He realizes he's started to move Harry's shirt up, that Harry is letting him, is about to move back fully to remove it, when Zayn remembers. He remembers the new tattoos, the leaves, the fucking leaves Harry added to his collection, covering their first matching tattoo.  
  
So he stops. He moves his hands down to Harry's thighs, because he can't look yet, not in a charged moment with Harry on top of him. He just can't, and he fucking hates himself for it. It was bad enough seeing it during their first quick change of the first show, let alone like this.  
  
Harry must not get it, that Zayn is slowly backing down, because he shifts, grinds his hips down, tries to catch Zayn's erection on his own, as he moves his hands from his shirt up to Zayn's hair.  
  
Zayn moves his head, breaks the kiss, so he can place his lips on Harry's throat, to sit still for a minute.  
  
Harry seems content though, still sweet as ever, as he touches Zayn's ears, tugs them with his fingers, like he has since he was sixteen and couldn't stop touching the most random of Zayn Malik's body parts. (Harry's favorites are his ears, his ankles, the skin covered by the pirate tattoo on his ribcage, and his long fingers.)  
  
"I wanna go to the pool. It looks so sick. Come with me," he sighs, kissing Zayn's neck.  
  
Zayn knows Harry phrases it like it's to be a fun excursion, like it's something that came to him on a whim. But he knows Harry is about to walk out into the hall and meet Ben, Cal, and the camera crew, the sound guy who will sure enough ask him to remember to speak up when they're next to the water. Zayn hates that every single thing they do has to be filmed, even now, even though their fans and the papers and the whole world know every fucking thing about them already. They have to go film at that massive statue on a mountain later in the afternoon. He doesn't want a camera on him until he has to.  
  
He also knows he'll save the story about introducing himself to a stranger for another time.  
  
"I'm tired," Zayn mouths against his skin.  
  
"But you had a chill night last night," Harry questions, body tensing slightly. "You and Lou had one of your nights, you should be rested."  
  
"Hazza, I'm tired. I don't want to go to the pool."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"What do you mean, why?"  
  
Harry sits back to look at him, fingers still on Zayn's ears.  
  
"Why don't you ever want to do what I want to do? Why don't you ever want to go with me anywhere?"  
  
Harry's not sixteen anymore, Zayn remembers again, even as Harry looks at him like he's not sharing his toys. They're not children playing in the X Factor house, or children on the road for their first headlining tour, or even the young men from Take Me Home, filming a "fucking movie, can you fucking believe it?"  
  
They're older. Harder. More sure of themselves and their words.  
  
Zayn thinks it then, how weird it is to literally and physically grow up with a person, almost every single day for years and years, and still end up being so completely different.  
  
"I just want to take a nap, Haz," Zayn ends up saying, to keep it simple, to not start something.  
  
"Fine," Harry huffs in his face, before getting off him and the bed entirely, and breezing back out of the room like always.  
  
Harry breezes, is the thing, even with his long limbs and awkward gait. He has a fluidity to him that Zayn admires, the ways in which he can walk in and out of room in a whisper and a bang all at once.  
  
Zayn shakes his head as the door slams. He then hears Harry's voice carrying down the hallway, as he invites the lads to the pool with him, any of the guys, any of the crew who would like to come. He hears Niall running past his door to join. Zayn could probably guess who all will accompany Mr. Harry Styles to the pool, the guys always up for hanging out with Harry.  
  
Everyone wants to be around Harry. Everyone.  
  
So when Zayn doesn't, when he can't be around him, for reasons he doesn't like to get into, he feels like a fucking traitor.

  
  
***

  
Zayn should've known that he'd never get to sleep, not after disappointing Harry. And he wasn't even lying, he really was tired.  
  
But it's always gnawed at him, the feeling he has immediately after making Harry angry or sad or antsy. He once called Harry annoying, and it was like he insulted Harry's mum or something. Harry's face fell, his eyes watered, before he walked away. He didn't speak to Zayn for three hours, and they were the three longest hours of Zayn's fucking life.  
  
So instead he calls his mum, talks to his sisters for a few minutes. He texts Perrie to see how she is, see how things with rehearsals are going. She sends him a photo of a stupid face, his favorite of hers, because she knows it makes him laugh when he's having a "Harry problem." Zayn honestly doesn't mind being "engaged" to Perrie, one of his closest friends, because she can usually tell when he needs a smile on his face. She was there at Madison Square Garden when Harry excitedly held Zayn's hand in front of a bunch of crew people they didn't personally know. She was there on the other end of the phone after their Miami weekend, and after everything went down in Australia again.  
  
He very nearly tells her everything, almost calls her, when he decides he needs to get a grip. Once Harry gets back from the pool, he'll explain he just didn't want a microphone in his face until later, when all the boys will be together, and they can talk so he won't have to. He could also mention the fact he didn't want to see Harry shirtless, see his ink covered and gone, but maybe that's a conversation for another day.  
  
Zayn remembers the first time they talked about tattoos, as they laid together on the top bunk in their shared room on X Factor. Harry had just tried to give Zayn a blow job, his first time ever trying it on a bloke, when their conversation drifted to tattoos. Zayn knew Harry was embarrassed, that he was stressed over not being good at it, over Zayn letting him stop and pulling him by the hand to lay with him instead. So he got Harry talking about ink, about what he wanted. Harry told him how his life felt so fragmented now, like there was a BEFORE and an AFTER, that everything was either pre-One Direction and post-One Direction. So if he were to get ink, he wanted it to be the same: all over the place, random, in pieces. It didn't all have to fit, because not much in Harry's life seemed to fit anymore anyways.  
  
Harry promised, as he pulled Zayn's body closer to his, that they'd get matching ones someday. He didn't want to think about what they'd get, or where, because he wanted it to be spur of the moment. They worked best by not planning.  
  
Zayn goes out to the balcony for a cigarette, wondering if Harry covered his words because he was angry, or if he just needed to get rid of the reminder that they weren't bumbling kids anymore, and were now men, men who had no clue how to navigate the world as a pair, not really, secretly or otherwise.  
  
As he looks out over Rio de Janeiro, eyes sweeping across the beach and the green trees, Zayn tries to be grateful, to remind himself this is what he wanted. He knows it's all happened for a reason, that for every hard day there are at least ten amazing days. He knows.  
  
He also knows, as he looks down to the pool, that he was meant to see this little display of Harry's, that it's on purpose.  
  
Harry Styles might as well be wearing a neon sign on his back that says LOOK AT ME. DO YOU SEE ME NOW, ZAYN?  
  
Zayn doesn't get angry often, especially not with Harry. But he's angry then, as he watches Harry hug Ben Winston, in his faded shirt and that stupid fucking hat on his head. Harry runs his hands along his arms, grips his shoulders, talks into his neck. He's clearly tipsy, what with Ben's strong hand on his back to hold him steady. He even leans down and tries to bite at Ben's chest, something he does to Zayn when he's too inside his own head.  
  
Ben placates him, let's him get it out, this display of affection that has Harry written all over it. They're all used to it, the way Harry can get when drunk, this needy desperation that only another person's hands can fill. The boys, Paul, security, all the girls in wardrobe, they all know how Harry is, and it's an unspoken rule that to get Harry out of it, to get him to settle down, all they have to do is call Zayn.  
  
And as if on cue, Zayn's phone lights up in his pocket, someone by the pool clearly alerting him to save Harry, to come get him.  
  
But Zayn ignores it. He resolutely ignores his phone, let's it vibrate in his pocket as he takes another drag and stares daggers at Harry Styles.  
  
Because you know what? Fuck him. That's what Zayn thinks as he lights another cigarette, still watching Harry make a fool of himself with a married man, out in the open, when all he can ever do with Zayn is kiss him behind closed doors, like the worst kept secret of the century. Fuck him. He covered his tattoo, he went to LA for weeks, needed to be as far as away as he could. Why kiss him again? Why start this? So he wants Zayn to be jealous and angry, to prove he has the upper hand?  
  
Well it's fucking working.  
  
Zayn stomps back inside, right as Ben removes Harry's hands from his body, right as he starts to turn Harry back towards the hotel. Because he won't let Harry know he saw them, not now, not yet.

  
  
***

  
Zayn spends his time at the Christ The Redeemer statue with Louis, taking stupid pictures on his phone so he can send them to his sisters. He tries not to mess with the mic pack around his waist, digging into his back, as Niall runs at him for a hug.  
  
He ignores Harry. Harry ignores him.  
  
If they didn't have to smile for cameras, for the hoards of girls following them around, Zayn's pretty sure his scowl would be seen from space. They don't say one word in the van on the way back, even though they're sat next to each other and Harry's hat keeps knocking against Zayn's face.

  
  
***

  
Zayn's well on his way to getting pissed that night at the rooftop party. It's gotten steadily louder and louder, and he vaguely wonders if it'll get shut down. They have the music blasting, and even their security guards are on that edge of drunkenness, something the boys rarely get to see. Preston actually turned his walkie off, Paul rolling his eyes at him, relenting that yes, okay, they can all have a night off together, so long as the boys stay close and stay together.  
  
Harry gives Zayn a pointed look over his drink at that, daring Zayn to leave his line of sight, to break off from the group alone. They all know Paul's wrath wouldn't be pretty, so Zayn looks away. He's stuck with Harry whether he likes it or not.  
  
Zayn has a few more drinks, some mixed things Liam's concocted at the bar, and he feels his limbs getting looser, his smile lazier. Harry used to joke with him that he can always tell when Zayn's proper drunk because his face stops being so angular. He said Zayn looks sweeter when drunk, not so many harsh lines, all flushed cheeks and a crinkled nose. He used to make Zayn pay attention to it, pinch his cheeks a few times, run his tongue along Zayn's lips to see if he could "feel it," because when drunk, "you should never be able to feel your face, Zayn."  
  
So Zayn finds himself near the bar, licking his lips over and over, testing if they're numb yet, if he's drunk.  
  
He is.  
  
Niall smacks a kiss to his cheek, right as Zayn looks up and sees Harry walking towards him. His shoulders are hunched slightly, his hat askew, those fucking ringlets he's grown out moving in the wind around his ears. Niall sees, because Niall sees everything, and smacks Zayn's ass before moving away towards a few crew guys.  
  
Harry gets right up to him, doesn't even stop his forward momentum until his body is completely against Zayn's, pushing him against the bar. The music's too loud, too many people are laughing and yelling to notice, when Harry breathes into his ear.  
  
"Mad at you," he slurs, as Zayn reaches to hold on to him, to steady him.  
  
"Well, I'm mad at you," Zayn retorts, into Harry's ear now.  
  
"I just wanted you to go with me, be by the pool for like five minutes, s'all," Harry whines.  
  
"You had Ben. You were fine without me."  
  
Harry steps away to look at him, his eyes wide.  
  
Zayn pulls him back in, pulls him close so he can get right at his ear again, to keep this conversation as contained as possible without Harry making a scene.  
  
"Don't act like you didn't know. You knew I'd see," he sighs, tightening his hold on Harry's shirt.  
  
Harry holds on to Zayn's shirt, the same green/blue tank top he wore that morning when Harry held on to him in bed, as he falls against him harder, pressing Zayn's back into the bar.  
  
"You jealous?"  
  
"Fuck off, Harry."  
  
"S'okay to be jealous, Zayn. Doesn't matter anyways, because you're the only one I want, you know that."  
  
"Do I?" Zayn says, his turn to pull away, to look at Harry.  
  
Harry looks as if he's been slapped across the face, as if Zayn insulted him again, called him annoying like that one time. He stares at Zayn like he doesn't know who he is, as if a stranger stands in front of him.  
  
And because Harry breezes like it's nothing, he swiftly turns and walks the few steps to Paul and angrily says something, pointing at the door. Zayn sighs, knows this all too well, and makes his way over to the exit, as Harry stomps behind him, Paul in his wake.  
  
The lift ride down to their hotel floor is a quiet one, Harry with his arms crossed next to Paul, seething. Zayn picks at his thumb nail, tears away at the skin a little, because he does that when he's anxious, rips his nails and cuticles to bloody shreds.  
  
Paul escorts them to Zayn's room, makes sure the hallway is clear and they're safety behind a locked door, before going back to the party that Zayn's almost positive is about ten minutes away from being shut down anyways.  
  
Harry goes to the bathroom and slams the door shut, just as Zayn makes his way to the balcony, getting ready for what is sure to be quite the argument. They've spent years together now, in each others' back pockets, shuffling along together from place to place, and Zayn knows his Harry like he knows the alphabet: he could probably recite it backwards if he tried hard enough. And he knew the second he questioned Harry's motives, about how he feels, knew the second he asked Paul to "take them home" that Harry would round on him and throw his feeling around. Zayn's not good with talking, ever, so it's usually by force when Harry pulls anything out of him.  
  
"You know, you are such a prick," Harry bellows as he stomps out of the bathroom, hair wet, a towel around his waist.  
  
Zayn puts out his cigarette, steps on it, and exhales the last bit of smoke in his lungs. He'd tried to hold it a few more seconds, to give his brain a moment to think, but it's no use. Harry's already on a roll.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. You are. You think I don't want you? Please. And I can see how you look at me, when I do things or go places, when I don't explicitly invite you, or ask your opinion if I should go. I see your fucking face, and I see when you're sad. But even when I do ask you, when I tell you over and over that I want you with me, you never go."  
  
Zayn walks around him, won't look at him, takes off his shirt and throws it to the floor next to his mess of clothes.  
  
"You won't even talk to me! I'm standing right here and you won't say anything!" Harry practically cries out, grabbing at his hair.  
  
Zayn feels the rope anchoring him to the earth, the knot holding him down and keeping him calm, the knot tethering him, he feels it snap. He turns to Harry in a rush, his breath already heaving, head still heavy from all the alcohol.  
  
"No."  
  
Harry looks at him, confused.  
  
"You're _never_ here, Harry. That's the problem."  
  
Harry's eyes narrow. Because he knows they're about to do this, lay it out, once and for all. Because they're not children playing in the X Factor house, or children on the road for their first headlining tour, or even the young men from Take Me Home, filming a "fucking movie, can you fucking believe it?" They're grown men who can never say what they fucking feel.  
  
"I am always here, Zayn. Don't you get it? I'm here, pushing, asking, begging. I sit here waiting for you, and I fucking beg you to be with me, and you never see me. You never fucking say anything."  
  
"Every time I need you, or want you next to me, you're in another country. Every place we go, you're planning for the next fucking place, the next flight, the next adventure. You're never _here_ ," Zayn gestures around them, to the space they both inhabit.  
  
They stare at each other, at a loss for words. They've both said it, how they can never fit in the same place at the same time.  
  
When they're on the road, Zayn wants to be home, in a quiet place where he doesn't have to be excited about introducing himself and shaking someone's hand.  
  
When they're home, Harry wants to be any place else, exploring, searching for something Zayn doesn't need.  
  
Zayn wonders if Harry needs him at all.  
  
"You covered your tattoo," Zayn says, emotionless, weakly gesturing with his hand to Harry's hip.  
  
"You have Perrie fucking Edwards on your arm," Harry hisses back, voice full of malice.  
  
Zayn's done then, his entire body gives out, gives up. This is about Harry always leaving, about Zayn never wanting him to. But it's also about them, about Harry seeming to give up, at Zayn letting himself be the "engaged one," the one Harry The Playboy can never have, not publicly.  
  
He shakes his head, just once, before going back out onto the balcony and shutting the door, leaving Harry standing in the middle of his messy hotel room with wet hair and an expensive towel.

  
  
***

  
Sometimes Zayn forgets things until all of a sudden they hit him like a truck, like a force of nature, or some random act of divine intervention. It's like his brain can be entirely disengaged, when he's high, or meditating, or even just sitting alone, when all of a sudden a memory will come to him out of nowhere. He wonders if whatever god or deity up in the sky makes it happen, or if he truly just comes up with it on his own. He doubts it.  
  
He's still on the balcony when a certain memory flashes to the front of his mind, like a fucking lightning strike, as it forms fully, running in front of his eyes like a film.  
  
They'd just sucked each other off on the bus, in the back lounge of Bus 2 somewhere near Vegas on their way to California, while the other boys messed around on Bus 1, making trouble for the people in charge. Zayn vaguely heard something about fucking with Marco again, bless him.  
  
Zayn pulled at Harry's hand, pulled him up to lay with him on the couch, to rub Harry's knees because they were a tad weaker than Zayn's. Harry was still slightly out of breath after returning the favor to him, after sucking him down and letting Zayn fuck his face. It was Zayn's favorite, Harry knew, so he balled his hands into fists and almost sat on them so he wouldn't touch, so Zayn could manhandle him in the best way.  
  
Zayn kissed his hair, near his temple, as Harry settled against him, breathing against his chest.  
  
"You excited to be home soon?" Harry whispered into his skin.  
  
"Yeah, s'gonna be sick to see my mum again," Zayn sighed, rubbing Harry's shoulder, smiling at the thought of the break in between America and Australia. "Feels like we've been away ages."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You excited?" Zayn smiled.  
  
"I don't want to go home," Harry said so quietly Zayn could barely hear.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I feel weird saying it, but like… I just don't like who I am when I'm home, when I'm back in that town."  
  
Zayn didn't get it, didn't understand. He was Zain again, back in Bradford, near his family, even back in London at his new house. So he kissed Harry's head again, letting him collect his thoughts.  
  
"All I ever wanted was to go somewhere besides my little village, my small space in the world. And whenever I'm back there, I feel like I'm sixteen again, with nothing, going no where. It makes my head hurt, and I don't like who I become. I get all weird and subdued, like I'm not me," Harry rushes out, before sitting up to look at Zayn. "Does that make sense?"  
  
"Sure," Zayn nodded, reaching for his hand to kiss his fingers.  
  
"That's terrible to say, right? That I don't want to be with mum, or Gem, or back in my old room. Bloody selfish," he sighed, laying back down on Zayn's chest.  
  
"S'not selfish."  
  
"Thanks. For saying that."  
  
"I got you, Hazza."  
  
"I always got you," Harry sighed.  
  
They went to sleep in Harry's bunk that night, with Harry between Zayn's legs, their special bus position when they couldn't move much. Zayn threaded his hands through Harry's hair that night, and looking back now, Zayn smiles because he distinctly remembers how he wished it was a little longer so he could really mess it up.  
  
Zayn puts out his cigarette, thinking of that night, the first time Harry expressed how he felt about being away. Zayn could never understand that need to be far, to go other places besides the ones he knew and could spread his arms in, the places his mum occupied.  
  
He didn't realize until now, now that lightning has struck him and the memory's come back, that they're exactly the same. Zayn and Harry both just need to feel like themselves, need to feel normal and complete and happy. Zayn's version is in Bradford, is home. Harry's version is in other people, is everywhere else.  
  
Zayn hangs his head, feeling like a right idiot for never realizing it before. He literally and physically grew up with Harry, almost every single day for years and years, and even on the days it seems to be otherwise, they're exactly the same.  
  
They're two people trying to find their slices of normalcy and happiness within a tornado, two people who can't be together in the way normal people are. Not yet. And sometimes when it gets to be too much, when it gets too heavy, they don't talk about it.  
  
They let things like tattoos and trips to the pool get in the way.  
  
So Zayn steadily gets up, eyes tired, and goes back inside to see Harry in his bed, turned away from the balcony door and on his stomach, a pillow shoved under his head. His long mess of hair is dry now, curling against his bare neck, the line of his back standing out against the white sheets, tan and sturdy. Zayn needs to touch him so badly, needs to settle himself. He takes off the rest of his clothes, chucks them to the pile near his bag, and slides in next to Harry, pressing himself against his back.  
  
Harry moves in his sleep slightly, he must sense Zayn behind him like old times, because he falls back into him as he adjusts the pillow under his cheek. Zayn kisses his shoulder, once, twice, before running his lips against his skin, his face no longer numb, feeling and feeling. He could spend the rest of his life with his face against Harry's skin. He reaches for Harry's hair, threads it through his fingers, savors the fact that it's so long. He can't help it, doesn't even know why he does it, but he moves his other hand up so he can make a small braid, just a little one, like the ones he used to do for his sisters.  
  
He lets the braid fall from his fingers, intending to shift back slightly and go to sleep, when Harry turns to him, rubbing one of his eyes.  
  
"You trying to pretty me up, Malik?" he whispers, voice groggy.  
  
"Already pretty," Zayn whispers back, running his hand along Harry's face.  
  
Harry looks at him fully, lets the air settle around them, not sure what to do or say now that they've both calmed down. Zayn knows Harry always speaks first, is always the one to get them talking when they need it, so he decides to let him off the hook this time.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Me too," Harry says against his lips.  
  
"Sorry for not going to the pool, for not doing something small. I want you all the time, you know that. It's just hard."  
  
"I know. And I'm sorry for the Ben thing. And the tattoo. Should've told you about it."  
  
"Why did you cover it?" Zayn furrows his brow, needing to know.  
  
"Read another article about your upcoming wedding," Harry says, shifting his body, closer. "I hate that this is all we have for now, and I just… I impulsively covered it, when I was in LA."  
  
"Our bodies are ours, remember? We got them in the first place, to show something without ever saying it, Hazza. I still have mine. I still want mine," Zayn whispers, as Harry runs his fingers across Zayn's hip, over the words they got together.  
  
"The words are still here, they're just underneath now," Harry says, before kissing him. "I want you. I want all of you."  
  
Zayn kisses him back, tells Harry with his mouth to shut the hell up, to stop talking. They've talked enough. If this is all they have, if they're going to fight over pools and covered tattoos, fight over not wanting to go home, at rooftop parties during their stadium tour, then they can at least shut the fuck up when it counts.  
  
Zayn shifts, moves on top of Harry now, pinning him down with his hips. He feels frantic now that he's started, now that the day is over and they're done with whatever weirdness consumed them. Harry kissed him first again in Argentina, showed Zayn he still wanted him, all of him, even when it seemed otherwise, and Zayn needed to show him now that he wants him just as badly. All the way.  
  
They can't leave marks, not when they still have shows to do, so Zayn doesn't linger at Harry's neck or chest long. He kisses his way down, applies just enough pressure for Harry to feel it, to feel his teeth, Harry's hands on his ears. Zayn licks and sucks at each nipple, teases Harry just the right way, just like he's done since he was seventeen years old and they each had a layer of baby fat between them when they rubbed one off together.  
  
"Touch me," Harry whines, as Zayn licks his way down his stomach, still too slow.  
  
Zayn ignores him and kisses the leaves on Harry's hips, the leaves covering their old words, the leaves that he hates to admit look fucking good on him, pointing down to his two favorite body parts of Harry's, his dick and his thighs.  
  
"What do you want?" Zayn grunts against Harry's skin, kissing down where his hip meets his leg, traveling down his thigh, biting into the flesh there.  
  
Harry just whines again as Zayn finally takes him in his hand.  
  
"You want me to fuck you? You want me to suck you off? Come on my face?" Zayn smiles, bites his leg again.  
  
"Fuck," Harry grunts.  
  
Zayn knows that's it then, that Harry wants Zayn's face on his cock, wants Zayn to do that thing with his tongue so Harry feels it down to his toes.  
  
He doesn't make him wait, just sinks right onto him, in one fluid motion, letting Harry into his mouth, the heat of his throat engulfing him. Harry hisses, as his body tenses up and he grabs at Zayn's shoulders, nails digging into his skin there, then his neck, his back. Zayn reaches for Harry's legs, pulls them up so they're bent slightly. He pulls off for a moment to look up at his Hazza, sees the little braid he made behind his ear against the white of the pillow. Zayn smiles.  
  
He reaches up and has Harry suck on his fingers, to get them wet, before moving back down and taking Harry back in his mouth. Harry's so good, always lets Zayn right in, so Zayn's up to the first knuckle of both fingers before Harry even knows it's happening.  
  
Harry grunts again, that sound he makes when Zayn pushes him along, as he bears down. Zayn sucks harder.  
  
"Babe," Harry whines, abs tensing under Zayn's palm, as Zayn swallows around him, brushing his nose against Harry's tuft of hair at the base. He hasn't trimmed lately, which Zayn absolutely loves, as his fingers sink into him further.  
  
Zayn knows when he's close, he always knows, so he scissors his fingers slightly, before curling them up, running his tongue on the underside of his cock at the same time. Harry says his name over and over and it's still the most beautiful thing Zayn's ever heard, his name coming out of Harry's mouth.  
  
Harry finally pulls at Zayn's hair, hard, pulling him off with a small pop. Zayn opens up, lays his tongue out, (" _How_ is your tongue that wide, Zayn? I'll never understand it," Harry told him once) as Harry holds him with one hand and fists himself with the other. Harry always looks so intense when he's focused, his eyes dark, his tongue in between his teeth, almost like he's angry. Zayn very nearly laughs whenever they do this, at the look on Harry's face, when he's getting himself off.  
  
He comes with one last shuddering breath, strings of come hitting Zayn's cheek, his top lip, his pink tongue. Harry shakes through it, as he spills across Zayn's face, his favorite thing, his favorite way to get off.  
  
Zayn let's Harry have his other favorite thing.  
  
"I love you," Zayn whispers, as he swallows, licks his lips. He wipes the come from his cheek and sucks his finger, staring at Harry, thankful.  
  
"I love you," Harry practically grunts again, pulling Zayn up by the neck.  
  
Zayn scurries up the bed, thighs on either side of Harry, to lean down and kiss him. Harry's so sweet, always so sweet from all the fucking fruit he eats, so he slides his tongue right into Zayn's mouth, shamelessly.  
  
Harry pulls him off, wanks Zayn until he has to lean down on his forearms, breathing into Harry's neck, until he's coming in his hand, on Harry's stomach, all over the butterfly and the leaves and their now-hidden words. Harry kisses his cheek, his mouth, his forehead, as Zayn breathes through it, as he comes back down.  
  
"I love you," Harry says again, because they haven't said it in so fucking long, Zayn's sure he'll be saying over and over. "And I love Brazil."  
  
Zayn smiles before leaning up to kiss him again.

  
  
***

  
Zayn sees Harry's face light up the next day when he shows up at the pool, as he comes walking over, his sandals flapping against his feet. He sees Harry do the double take as he saunters to the group, with his tshirt slung over his shoulder. Zayn smiles at him.  
  
Because even though he misses home, and he doesn't do well with traveling, with being outside in the open, with strangers and camera phones and long lenses, Harry needs him today.  
  
Harry forces his face to relax, as Zayn settles in the chair next to him. Zayn can see the twitch in his hands, the ring covered fingers itching to reach for him and hold on somehow, to touch Zayn's skin out in the open, under the sun he rarely ventures into.  
  
"You're wearing jeans," Harry says instead, sitting on his hands, smiling. "At the pool."  
  
Zayn just looks at him, more or less telling Harry to pick his battles, which makes Harry giggle like a little girl.  
  
They have drinks by the pool, laughing with the lads, as people filter in and out of the group. Zayn catches Harry staring at him, even with sunglasses covering his eyes, he sees him biting his lip over and over, as it plumps up under his teeth, and Zayn wants nothing more than to touch it with his tongue.  
  
But then he remembers the day before when Harry made him jealous by touching Ben, and he gets an idea.  
  
"I'm gonna head back to the room," he says simply, stretching, before standing up.  
  
Harry just nods, and Zayn knows that means Harry wants to stay, that they'll spend the rest of the day apart. It's fine, they're both used to it. Zayn knows that many people on the outside looking in say that Zayn and Harry only interact on stage, and it's actually kind of true, some days. They savor their time on stage, when the lights illuminate them and make them feel ten feet tall, when they can be affectionate and laugh together, when Zayn has to save the day when Harry falls over (again).  
  
Ben stands only a few feet away, holding his phone, as Zayn steps to him. He shifts his body so Harry can get a full view of his back, of the marks he has on his upper shoulders from Harry's nails, from the night before. He hears Harry laugh again.  
  
Zayn gets closer to Ben, asks a dumb question about filming that night, when he needs to be mic'd, and puts his hand on Ben's back. Ben brings his hand up to Zayn's hip, starts discussing the schedule, and Zayn smirks.  
  
He hears Harry make a sound behind him, a huff of annoyance, the sound coming up over the lounge chair he's on, and he knows he's going to get it later.  
  
Zayn tugs at his beanie slightly as he walks away, still laughing to himself, because when Harry's jealous, he's fucking adorable.

  
  
***

  
The door to his hotel room isn't even half way shut when Harry comes rushing through it, shoving Zayn, his phone flying out of his hand.  
  
"Didn't think I'd see you until later," Zayn laughs out, as Harry throws him back on the bed, his skin hot to the touch, pink from the sun, as he climbs up onto him, his body completely over Zayn's now.  
  
"Shut it," Harry growls into his neck, biting him, as his hands find their way to his fly.  
  
Zayn can't stop smiling now that he's started, so he brings his hands up under his head, cool as anything, as Harry bites at him like he's starving.  
  
"I was going to tell you, I got to introduce myself yesterday," Zayn laughs, as Harry throws his jeans over his shoulder. "S'nice, you know? He was clearly a dad, probably going to tell his little girl about it. It was whatever. But nice."  
  
Harry gets up quickly to throw his clothes off, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Zayn, that's wicked. So happy for you. Now shut the fuck up."  
  
Zayn was absolutely right, when he knew he was in for it, because when Harry blew him, he did it tortuously slow. He was in such a rush to get Zayn naked, to get himself naked, and then he kept Zayn on edge for ages, before letting him come, because Harry is a fucking dick.  
  
Zayn about smacked him for it, but instead, he got on his knees for Harry, because, well. He just felt like it.

  
  
***

  
Zayn should've known later that afternoon, as he chilled out by the pool again in a cabana with the guys, that Harry was up to something. He texted him a few times, to see where he was, to see how he was doing, to say that he missed him already (which he's kicking himself for, for sounding so needy, but fuck off), and Harry never responded.  
  
So Zayn tucked his phone in his pocket, telling himself that he'll have Harry on stage later, like always. They'll connect all over again, in front of thousands of people, because it's what they do.  
  
They'll light up the stage for thousands of Brazilians, before they finish with the last two shows, and head home.  
  
Or head wherever Harry will head, who the hell knows.

  
  
***

  
Zayn's not even paying attention, ironically enough, when the screams start. He's taking a drink of water, standing next to the boys, as Harry talks to the audience by himself. Zayn's just meandering about, waiting for the next song, when the screams become big. Too big.  
  
He turns just in time to see Harry's back, the telltale movements of Harry Styles when he's about to undo his tight jeans, the movements Zayn's seen a thousand times, from behind, from the front, from every angle possible.  
  
"I'll show you just how much we love Brazil," Harry says into the mic, voice rough from singing.  
  
The entire place erupts as Harry pulls his jeans down, as he tugs his pants up.  
  
Zayn practically gives himself whiplash, he turns to look at the jumbo screen so fast, to see the _Brasil!_ tattoo stood out against Harry's skin, right there on Zayn's second favorite body part, right there on his upper thigh.  
  
Zayn almost laughs then, imagining his other thigh, the one he bit into the night before and left marks on.  
  
The boys all laugh along, Niall bent over at how fucking dumb Harry is, but Zayn feels his throat constrict instead.  
  
He smiles, he laughs, but behind it, he almost cries, because Harry might cover their original words, he might get mad and impulsive and do something stupid to make Zayn upset with him. But he'll always course correct, do something so ridiculous, so _Harry_ , that Zayn falls for him all over again, the fucking bastard.  
  
In between the next two songs, Harry grabs him to whisper in his ear, fingers tugging on the hem of Zayn's shirt.  
  
"I'm always here. Okay? I'm here, and you're here, and even when we're not here, we still are," he says with a smile.  
  
It doesn't make sense. At all. In fact, Harry may have just thrown a bunch of words together, hoping they form a sentence, hoping they stick. And Zayn rolls his eyes at it, for the audience's sake, so no one thinks they're getting too heavy as they whisper in the dark.  
  
But it also makes all the sense in the world.  
  
It's kind of what he's needed to hear all along.

  
  
***

  
Zayn runs his hands up Harry's back, the plane of skin he's sunk his teeth into, the skin he's seen bruised from falling on stage, and in the bus, and in his living room when he tripped over Hatchi once. It's the back Harry's been working to bulk up, from his hips all the way up to his wide shoulders and thick arms Zayn's pretty sure could hold him down for hours like it's nothing.  
  
He's slow with it tonight, as his hands wander, as he pushes into Harry again and again, Harry's face in the mattress, his nails digging into the sheets around them. He doesn't push back at Zayn, doesn't meet him in the middle. Zayn knows he wants to feel it, he wants Zayn to move them, show him how he wants it done.  
  
Zayn runs his hand from Harry's back down to his hip, around to his thigh, fingers running across the raised pink skin, over the letters Harry chose for him, for them, because he's impulsive and weird and fucking crazy. Harry only hisses a little as his flesh reacts to the friction of Zayn's hand.  
  
"You better not cover it," Zayn grunts, pushing in harder, their skin slapping together.  
  
"Won't," Harry huffs out with difficulty, hands still grasping the sheets.  
  
"What should I get?"  
  
Harry's body tenses, Zayn feels it, feels Harry clench on his cock and he almost loses it, the hot heat of Harry pulling him in further.  
  
"What?" Harry breathes, as Zayn slowly slips out of him, hands on his hips.  
  
Harry pushes up to his arms, before throwing himself over, onto his back, to stare up at him. Zayn doesn't miss a beat, he holds Harry's ankles and sinks back into him, stealing a groan from Harry's mouth, that delicious sound he craves like nicotine.  
  
"We gotta match, right?"  
  
Zayn speeds up, slams into Harry harder, his small ankles in his hands, spread open wide. Zayn can't look away from where their bodies meet, Harry wet and open for him.  
  
"Yeah," Harry whines, grabbing for him.  
  
Zayn lets his legs go so he can lean down, so they're chest to chest, his mouth at Harry's neck, his pulse under his lips.  
  
"We're the same, right? Right, Hazza?" he grunts one final time, before coming inside him, his hips erratic as he spasms, again and again, his body flushed and hot.  
  
Harry comes between them, tensing right as Zayn's coming down from his orgasm. He sees a white light behind his eye lids as Harry clenches around him, his fingers digging into his shoulders.  
  
Once he's pulled out, once Harry's let his body go and just lays boneless beneath him, Zayn kisses his mouth lightly. Harry doesn't say anything, doesn't need to, and Zayn knows he'll get _Brasil!_ on his own leg, because for this tattoo, this time, it needs to be exactly the same.

  
  
***

  
Zayn sees Harry from his balcony again the next day, as he has his morning cigarette. He sees Harry in the same cabana he himself occupied with the guys the day before while Harry was off getting his tattoo. He also sees Harry wearing his shirt, the green/blue tank top he wore in the exact same chair yesterday, the one that probably smells like his cologne, and smoke, and the body wash he insists on having in every shower he occupies outside of London.  
  
It's Harry's turn to wear it now, sipping a drink from a fucking pineapple, in his stupid fucking hat.  
  
It smells like him, like Zayn. And Harry took it for the day.  
  
Zayn smiles.

  
  
***

  
Harry holds Zayn's hand in the van on the way to the airport, in the dead of night, after their last South American show. They're all exhausted, fucking knackered, and the thought of being on a plane is horrific. Necessary, but horrific.  
  
It's with some difficulty that they finally let each other go, as the doors all open and they begin to file out, the boys, the team, security, Lou, one by one, from the line of vans. One Direction isn't just five of them, it's a whole football team's worth, and Harry knows he'll miss each and every one of them.  
  
Zayn the most, of course, but he'll miss them all, until they see each other again in a few weeks for the European leg.  
  
He hugs each of the boys first, then everyone else, as they all start to separate.  They're all knotted together whether they like it or not, separated or in the same room. Most everyone is on the same flight to London, but Harry needs to get to another terminal, Paul said he only had a minute before he'd walk him over.  
  
They find an unoccupied hallway in the airport, Paul standing guard, as they hug and hold on for a few more seconds.  
  
"I'll see you soon, then," Zayn says into his neck.  
  
"Tell everyone I say hi, yeah?" Harry whispers into his ear, fingers running along his opposite ear, tugging slightly.  
  
"Text me everything. Text me all of it, every picture. And be careful on that fucking motorcycle, Jesus Christ…" Zayn huffs out.  
  
"I will."  
  
Zayn pulls at his own green/blue tank top, the one Harry nicked from his bag earlier and is currently wearing. He pulls him in for a kiss, slips his tongue in his mouth.  
  
"Be good," Zayn sniffs, before stepping back.  
  
"I will," Harry says wetly, rubbing his face for only a second.  
  
Once Harry's on his plane to Miami, once he's taken a few pictures with random girls in the seats near him, he settles in. He pulls his hat over his eyes, readies himself for the long flight back to America, back to the place he loves, the home he's created, the home that is simply himself and his backpack.  
  
Zayn needs his house, his weird collection of pets, to see his friends, to be Zain for a few weeks. And that's fine, because they're the same. Harry needs to be moving, changing, writing songs on his own, to be Harry for a few weeks.  
  
He tugs the tank top up over his mouth and nose, and smells it. It smells like Zayn, like Gucci and cigarettes.  
  
But once they're back together in a few weeks, once they're there, _here_ , wherever here is, it'll smell like him, like Harry. Then he'll give it back to its rightful owner, over breakfast, when Zayn's texting on his phone and he's eating cereal before hitting the gym.  
  
Harry smiles.  
  
 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
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